Warmth of the Heart
by ArtemisIsis13
Summary: HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY! France plays host to the most recent World Meeting, which falls on none other than the most romantic day of the year. However, his plans go forgotten when he finds himself in an unprecedented predicament with the most unlikely of nations, who has his own issues with what love has done to his cold heart. / Hints of USUK. COMPLETED!


**Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I make no claims of owning it.**

**So, I started planning this a while ago to post for Valentine's Day so I won't end up having to change it up because I got it out late, like I did for my Halloween and would-be Christmas story, which ended up being for New Year's Day.**

**This is an exceedingly rare pairing in my opinion. I'm not entirely sure how I got here, to be honest, but I don't mind it one bit. There's a country who loves love and a country who craves love. Well, it works for me. Though I warn you, this is a bit OOC.**

**Songs of the Chapter:**

**~M83 - Oblivion (feat. Susanne Sundfør)**

**~Yasuhiro Takato (Russia) – White Flame (see below)**

* * *

**FRANCE &amp; RUSSIA**

**Warmth of the Heart**

* * *

France hummed sweetly to himself as he tenderly stroked the soft petals of the red rose clasped between his slim fingers. While it was his turn to play host to another World Meeting, he had long lost his interest in what the other nations had to say. He could not fathom over why the meeting was scheduled for such an important day. He could list several reasons why they should have postponed it to another—not that there would a useful change, nonetheless.

This day was not only a weekend, but also a day devoted to celebrating love. While its origins surrounded the martyr Saint Valentine, what it had come to stand for in this day and age was what France adored the most. He even had the Meeting Room decorated with roses, red ribbons and chocolates of all shapes and sizes (most of which had been devoured hours ago), and it had been superb amusement to see the expressions on the nations' faces once they had entered the room to find themselves in a Valentine's Day Wonderland.

France did not think anyone was more grateful to leave the room at the meeting's end more than England, though that may have had something to do with America constantly saddling up to him and whispering something into his ear. Whatever it was, England's creamy face would translate itself into a lovely shade of rose red before he fled to a spot far from America, leaving the energetic nation disappointed in his wake.

"If no one else has anything _useful_ to contribute, then this meeting is concluded," Germany said, with an obvious amount of irritation coloring his voice as he picked up his folder and straightened his neat black suit.

"I agree with Germany," France said with a gentle wave of his arm. "Besides, there's no point in staying here if no one's enjoying themselves, _oui_? I can think of far more—_pleasurable_—activities we can play outside."

"If one of them is strip-tease, I'm out," England grumbled, folding his arms as he backed away suspiciously from the French nation, who only chuckled in response as England backed into America and would have fallen over had America not grabbed him around the waist.

"If that's what you wish, _Angleterre_. I won't stop you," France replied to the grouchy nation, who squirmed out of the younger nation's grip. "But you'll miss out on all the fun."

"Tch!" England spat before walking away.

Chuckling to himself, France turned around and approached the door exiting the Conference Room. He caught sight of Picardy near the window and gave him a 'thumbs up' signal, and nodded with satisfaction as he hurried off in the other direction.

So far, the only nations to compliment his interior design were Canada, Monaco and Seychelles, and he felt a bit miffed that no one else had appreciated the hard work he had put in to making this place beautiful and relaxing. He ignored an indignant yelp in the background as he slide through the crowd of Asian nations to the exit, and inhaled a breath of fresh air in the corridor beyond, free of the rattled and stifling energy of weary and irritated nations.

So many hours were wasted in that room, but there was no point in crying over it all now. There was so much to do today, and that meeting almost ruined it all. France hummed to himself as he tucked the red rose into his breast pocket, winking at a passing maid and reveling in the lovely blush that filled her creamy cheeks. He was about to stop and talk to her when two nations, Romania and Bulgaria, bolted passed him, almost knocking him to the floor, and they were quickly followed by the Baltic nations, all with similar expressions of panic on their faces.

"_Mon dieu!_" he exclaimed as he waved his arms wildly to steady himself. "Why are you—?"

"Move it or lose it, you Cheese Bastard!" Romano yelled as he and a bawling Italy barreled out of the Conference Room at a speed that would do a sport's car proud.

"_¡Vamos_, _mi amigo!_" Spain added as he rushed out of the room, wrapping his hand around France's arm before dragging him down the hallway. "She's coming!"

"Who?" France managed to spit out as he and Spain, closely followed by Prussia, wove through the hallways far away from the conference room.

"Belarus!" Prussia said, not even breaking a sweat. "That woman's gone crazy!"

"She can't find _Señor_ Russia and now she's attacking everyone in sight!" Spain added with a hint of worry in his voice. "_Señorita_ Ukraine can't calm her down."

"It's from all that chocolate she ate," Prussia said before letting out a, "_Kesesesesese! _Russia's in for it big time! She's even waving the knives around!"

"_Mon dieu!_ Only you would be amused by that! Don't you even care if she catches us?"

"Eh, not really. _Kesesesesese!_"

So much for a romantic day. He was running for his life! As much as he adored passion, he was certainly not in the mood for the _crime passionnel_—murder. Especially if it was from a hyper Belarus desperately searching for her elder brother.

The Bad Touch Trio stopped running and scanned their immediate surroundings. Taiwan and Vietnam passed them by, chatting amicable so though no threat lurked through the corridors at all. In the distance, the sound of England's shouts and America's laughter echoed for all to hear, though the sounds were instantaneously cut off at a sound that made everyone's blood run cold.

"_Big Brother Russia?! Big Brother! Where are you? Please, let's become one! Come out, Big Brother!_"

Prussia visibly shook, though his voice was steady and surprisingly amused. "_Gott im Himmel_. She's getting closer!"

"Well, we're not Russia," France reassured it. "She has no reason to attack us, _oui_?"

"Uh…" Prussia raised an eyebrow. "We're _NOT_ Russia! That's the _ONLY_ reason she would have attack us! The only thing she _wants_ to attack him with is _not_ something _I_ want to think about!"

Spain turned green. "_¡Dios mío!_ I'm thinking about it!"

The Prussian grimaced and made a sound of disgust. "_Ugh!_ Spain!"

"_Lo siento_…"

France wanted to hit his head against the wall and bite at the edge of his handkerchief, but refrained as Belarus's voice grew louder as she approached their group. "Well, why are we just standing here waiting to be murdered? _Allons-y!_"

The Bad Touch Trio disappeared into the maze of corridors the building had to offer, and it wasn't after five minutes had passed that France discovered he was alone, and that at some point in the chase, Spain and Prussia had separated away from him. Annoyance welled up inside him as he stopped running and approached the nearest window. He was on the second floor, but the building's entrance was nearby. Now, all he had to do was find the nearest staircase and—

"_Big Brother?! Are you here?_"

France tensed. Of all the corridors she could have ventured through, it had to be the ones nearest to him? Did God hate him? That could not have been a coincidence! This building was fairly large with five floors, and that conference room had been on the fourth on the other side of the building to where he was standing. France backed away from the window, but his shoe snagged on the carpeting and before he could stop himself, gravity threw him to the ground with a loud _'crunch!'_, so loud that it attracted Belarus's attention.

He was dead meat. He knew it in his heart.

Scrambling to his feet and ready to retreat, France turned to run, only for a strong arm to grab him from behind and yank him backwards. With a cry of alarm, France found himself swallowed by darkness and the sound of thundering footsteps drummed into his ears, but before he could scream for help, a cold hand clapped itself over his mouth.

"_Shhh!_ She'll hear you!" a gentle, childlike voice whispered to him urgently, holding him in place against his cold chest in the midst of darkness.

France's body froze, but the blood in his veins boiled with apprehension. There was no mistaking that childlike voice, even if it was a gentle, urgent whisper. The breath accompanying send a chill across the back of France's neck as he felt himself pulled into a spooning embrace with a broad, cool chest and two strong arms, one around his waist, and another over his mouth.

The sound of footsteps stopped outside the door, where a thin thread of light peeked underneath the crack of the door to lightly illuminate the boots of none other than Russia himself, who remained as silent as the dead as Belarus's hard breathing grew louder.

"Big Brother!" she called out, but Russia remained silent. The seconds trickled by, and France could feel the heat of what he assumed was a cupboard, and the pounding of his heart as his blood surged through his body, ready to flee should that door open.

That was, if he could escape Russia's death grip first. He was terrifying strong.

A shadow crept over the thin light filtering under the door and the seconds grew shorter as the sound of the doorknob began to wobble, turning to unlock. Tremors jointed through France's body, only for him to realize that Russia was trembling from behind him. It was rare to see this large nation frightened, but it seemed that Belarus had a knack for it. He faintly remembered how depressed Russia got whenever the topic of his sisters came to light during the time they spent together during the World War, but he never thought the nation would be truly frightened of his younger sister.

Then again, she was desperate to marry and _become one_ with him. Anyone would be frightened by such an obsession, especially by her behavior.

"Belarus!" Ukraine's voice cut through the tense air and Russia's grip on France loosened by a fraction. "I told you that _Malen__ʹ__kyy Brat_ already left."

Belarus scoffed. "I know he's around here somewhere! I can sense him!"

Russia shuddered behind France, who actually began to feel sorry for the larger nation.

"Please, Belarus! Why don't we go outside for a while? I'm sure that Brother Russia will turn up eventually. We're all flying back home together, aren't we?"

The silence returned, and the only sounds anyone could hear were that of the passing cars outside. Finally, the sound of blades returning to their sheaths joined them.

"Fine. But I'll be the one to sit next to Big Brother on the plane!" And with that, the footsteps of the two sisters faded away from the corridor, and Russia never released France from his hold until he opened the door to inspect the world outside the closet.

The two nations blinked away the sting of the light piercing into their eyes as they closed the door to the closet behind them. The corridor was empty, and the light of the afternoon blazed through the windows, illuminating even the smallest of dusty specs floating through the air, each in its own carefree dance to the floor and beyond.

Russia sighed with relief. "She's gone. _Spasibo_, Big Sister."

"_Oui_, well, I owe thanks to your elder sister as well," France remarked as he straightened his wrinkled jacket from his time against Russia's chest. "Your younger sister has surely disrupted the atmosphere in the entire building! Everyone was more concerned with escaping her than enjoying the décor I prepared for the Meeting."

Russia stared at him curiously, now that the fear was out of his system. "The décor? You refer to the chocolate and flowers, _da?_"

"Of course! What's Valentine's Day without flowers and chocolate?" France asked rhetorically, only to receive a blank stare.

"Today is Valentine's Day?" Russia asked, surprised.

France was shocked. "How could you not know? Surely, you celebrate Valentine's Day at your place?"

Russia shrugged his shoulders. "My people do, but _I _have no need for celebrating such an occasion. But it does explain why my little sister was so persistent today…"

France tutted. "Come now, Russia. Everyone celebrates Valentine's Day. Even _Angleterre_ celebrates it, though he'll never admit it. I'm sure at this very moment, he's dodging America's advances as we speak."

Russia chuckled and adjusted his cream-colored scarf around his neck. "That's just like you, France. So immersed in love that you believe all should bask in it for themselves."

"I'll take that as a compliment." France tried not to shudder at the cold, childlike smile on Russia's face. While they were fair allies, Russia's creepy aura always intimidated France to point of him avoiding his presence. Yet, in the midst of that fear, there was a twinge of sadness lurking around in his chest. He could never imagine having no need to celebrate Valentine's Day, in all its splendor in companionship.

"As you wish." Russia approached the window and peered through the glass. "Big sister is taking Belarus away from the building. I think it's safe to leave, _da_?"

"And what do you plan to do?" France asked, eyeing the nearby staircase at the other end of the corridor and making his way towards it. "Surely you aren't going to hide in your hotel room until nightfall. That's a waste of such a lovely day."

Russia followed France down the stairs. "It would be lovelier with sunflowers, _da_? And it's so warm out." He smiled happily to himself. "Perhaps I will stay outside. But I don't know where to go." He paused. "Why don't you show me around, France? You must know Paris better than anyone."

France tensed at the suggestion. Him? Give Russia a tour around Paris? Wasn't this supposed to be a happy day?

"Oh," he said nervously. "Well, if you're certain…" Rejecting him might not make anything better. HE would catch up with Picardy eventually.

France walked ahead of Russia, shaking off the lingering chill that overcame him in the other nation's presence. He watched a group of laughing children cross the street, and a few of them waved over to him. Slowly, the tension eased off his shoulders, and he found himself smiling and waving back at them. He watched the passing cars and buses as he walked down the sidewalk, where a few shop owners and vendors were selling their Valentine wares. Small splashes of red flooded his sight at every corner, followed by laughter, music, singing, chattering, and all the pleasant sounds of a typical French day.

Not that it was highly noticeable, but France could feel the excitement of his people as he passed by them, and deep in their hearts, they all sensed his happiness in return. The French weren't like Americans who openly threw Valentine's Day into an over-commercial celebration with high and overpriced demands. They were more subtle and intimate. He received waves, smiles, pleasantries, and even flowers from adults and children alike. He was so consumed in their attentions that he forgot that Russia was behind him until the nation had placed his cold hand on his shoulder.

"Your people love you very much," he remarked as they passed through another crowd of French citizens. "Mine don't even look me in the eyes."

"Eh?" France sweat-dropped and tittered nervously. "Is that so…?"

_'Well, perhaps if you weren't so creepy and intimidating, they would by more agreeable,'_ he thought to himself—that was, until he saw the saddened light in Russia's eyes, dimly hidden by that sweet smile on his face. '_Oh, don't start making me feel guilty_…'

France was a land of love, where liveliness came in abundance in the hearts and minds of many, even with all their flawed prospects, and even to those he didn't like, he knew how to be a courteous host. France sighed, and after gazing around, caught sight of a group of local children sitting near a fountain. He smiled and winked at the curious Russia next to him. "Come with me."

Approaching the young children, he took note of the pink and white roses in their hands, symbols of chaste love. He spoke to them in French. "_Good afternoon, little ones!_"

They grinned at him, and a few girls curtseyed. "_Good afternoon, Monsieur France!_"

"_Are you making rose crowns?_" he asked, taking a seat next to the little girls, who weren't any older than seven years. "_Those are beautifully done, Cosette. Did your grandmother teach you that pattern?_"

"_Oui!_" The little blonde girl, Cosette, held up her little creation for her nation to see.

France beamed. "_Well done! Why don't you show Big Brother France how you made that? And perhaps my—friend—here as well_." He indicated to Russia, who stood a little distance from the group. A few children eyed the foreign nation apprehensively, but at their own nation's request, a few of them moved aside for Russia to sit at the fountain with them.

Perhaps if he got Russia in a good enough mood, he'll leave him alone without any fuss.

**~o~**

Russia did not know what France was up to. It was clear that these little children didn't want to be around him, but if France stayed here, then so would he. One of the little girls bravely took up the task of teaching him to make a crown of roses. He learned that her name was Jocelyne. She was cute, with short brown hair and wide blue eyes. In a way, she resembled another little girl he once knew with her hopeful expression, but he brushed that thought aside. She knew some English words to communicate with him, but understood absolutely nothing in Russian. She never trembled with fear like other little children did when she gazed up at him. In fact, she was eager to teach him how to weave the thorn-less stems of the roses together.

HE made several mistakes along the way, and even crushed a few blossoms in his strong, cold grasp, but little Jocelyne was surprisingly patient, and whenever he did something right, she beam up at him with her sweet little face, and something inside his chest warmed up.

_Why couldn't other people be like that around him?_ The last person to be that sweet to him was… Russia felt a burn behind his eyes, but brushed it aside. He shouldn't think about that.

After what felt like hours, they had finally finished one complete crown of white roses. Proudly, they went to France, who was busy telling the other children stories of their grandparents when they were young, and after a few simple hand gestures with each other to make up for the language barrier, Russia plopped the rose crown on France's head.

Jocelyne burst into giggles at the sight of France's startled expression. Even Russia couldn't hide his smirk. France turned and stared at his transparent reflection in the fountain's waters, and eyed the rose crown fondly. It _did_ look good on him.

"_Honhonhon_. _Merci, Jocelyne_," he said with a light chuckle, reached out and kissing her forehead. "And_ merci, Russia_."

"_Da_," Russia replied as Jocelyne grabbed his hand and tugged him away to make more crowns.

They stayed for another hour, in which Jocelyne, Cosette and two other little girls crowded around Russia and practically braided white and pink roses into his light locks of hair, babbling in French to one another. In the end, France wanted to die of laughter. Russia's hair was sticking up in all directions, with roses covering his head like a strangely formed hat, but Russia wore it proudly as they finally departed from the children, and France contemplated that maybe spending some of the day with the Russian wouldn't be so bad.

"I wonder how it would look if it were sunflowers," Russia contemplated to himself, and France held onto his side. Oh, the hair would look even more hilarious… It was so unusual to see Russia in such a state, but he wasn't complaining. In fact, he was enjoying himself immensely.

They passed a young girl handing out flowers to passersby, and France accepted a white rose from her without hesitation, sticking it behind his ear where it sat nicely with his white rose crown. She even gave one to Russia, who, after being initially started at the gesture, hesitantly accepted it with a word of thanks in Russian. The girl blushed and curtseyed to him as he and France walked away.

The sun bathed all of Paris in a warmth so fierce that France began to fan away the sweat forming on his forehead. Light gleamed off of the high windows and the Eiffel Tower in the distance, and as he shed his jacket, he wished he could have something cold to ease the uncomfortable warmth forming around him. However, Russia was too stubborn to remove his coat and scarf, and settled for baking in his clothes. He raised his pale face towards the sky, where his wide violet eyes glittered under the sunlight, drinking in a warmth foreign to his homeland. It soaked into his bones, still chilled even after this long period away from home.

France's place was quite lovely indeed.

Russia's daydream came to an abrupt end at the sound of a lively violin, and his eyes met an alarming and pleasant sight. A few of France's people had started dancing to the sound of the violin, and France had jumped in to dance with the pretty young men and ladies in attendance, making each and every one of them blush as he beamed and chuckled in their twirling merriment. Russia didn't notice until it was too late when one of them grabbed his hand and pulled him into the dance. He blushed as he tripped over his feet and nearly fell flat on his bum, so unused to their lively elegance.

This was definitely not a Cossack dance.

France eventually took pity on the large nation and his people, and gracefully departed from the dancers with Russia in tow. He'd never seen Russia so grateful in his life. For a worried moment, France had believed Russia would lose his temper and unleash his infamous _"Kolkolkol"_ on his unsuspecting people from his experience, but so far, he didn't seem angry enough to try.

At least, that's what France hoped. Dancing with Russia was like prancing on eggshells. No one wanted to see what happened when they broke.

"You're people are quite lively today," Russia remarked softly. France refrained from flinching at the chill that overcame him at the tone of that voice.

"Of course. Whenever I'm around, they are always so buoyant," he replied, grateful that his fear wasn't obvious in his voice. "It is not only on Valentine's Day, naturally. While I cannot account for everyone, of course, such vibrancy cannot be contained in my presence." He let out a graceful twirl and raised his handsome face towards the darkening sky, hinting that nightfall would soon approach. "_Ici, à Paris_, there is a spirit, one that takes root in their hearts and blossoms into _telle beauté magnifique_ that awakens and inspires the soul to share such bliss with one another, _oui_? Who am I not to enjoy it?"

Russia stared at France, his eyes wide, before letting out a humming sound and turning away.

"Not for everyone."

France was brought down to earth as Russia continued to walk along the sidewalk. "_Eh?_ Why would you say that?"

Russia's hands flapped lazily at his sides, and his face was hidden from France's sight, but his voice was as cold and childlike as France had ever heard it.

"It is not the place that awakens bliss, but the people who chose to share it, _da_," he said softly, even sadly. "I knew such a spirited person once, who brought such joy to her people, my people. _Sladkiy Malen'kaya, _whose face, I will never forget, or her laughter and smiles. Only she ever gave me such happiness in all the years of my life."

It was France's turn to fall silent. He had never heard of Russia speak of anyone so affectionately, so tenderly, and so despondently. It was as if a spell had fallen upon his lips, sealing away his voice as the two nations walked together, side by side, and the faces of their passersby crumbled and dissipated from sight, unknown and forgotten in their little bubble.

"You would have heard of her, _da_?" Russia added, his tone dangerously low. "My sweet _Malenkaya_." He reached his hand to his hair and plucked one of the roses that Jocelyne and Cosette had braided into his fair locks and stared at it. "She was the only child who never feared me, even while knowing my past, and all that I had done. Her smiles never wavered in my presence. There were days she fell asleep in my arms and refused to leave, even upon her father's request. Her heart was untamable. I could never deny her what she wanted."

As he spoke, he could see her image ablaze in his eyes; he could see her pirouetting—that young, energetic child, full of mischief and charm, who would dance until her feet were sore, and though her father disapproved, Russia would carry her wherever she wanted to go, and she would talk for hours, cuddled into his chest, unflinching at the coldness of his touch.

She had never been afraid to speak her mind, even when her witty remarks hit sore spots, but Russia could never find it in himself to stay upset with her. There were days when she played with him in the snow, until her strawberry-blonde hair was coated in snowflakes, and her blue eyes sparkled, even when she cried. No matter how undeniably naughty she became in her own mischief-making upon servants and tutors alike, she was a spark of white fire against the coldest shadows of General Winter himself.

"What was her name?" France asked as they came to stop in front of the Eiffel Tower.

Russia chuckled lifelessly. "Who else? Anastasia. My _Malenkaya_."

France's blood translated itself into ice and life itself seemed to halt around him. Anastasia? As in the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna, who was _executed_ along with the rest of her family in 1918? _That_ Anastasia?

"She died very young. She was only seventeen," Russia went on, unknowing of France's internal panic. "I remember that her family was disappointed after her birth—they wanted a male heir, after all, and were pleased to have Alexei years afterwards. It's silly, looking back on it. I watched her grow up, and she was the only member of the Romanovs to never be anxious around me.

"Though I saw failure in her father, I saw hope in her, more than her siblings. I believe they disliked me for that. I played with _Malenkaya_ whenever she wanted me to." He stared at the flower in his hand. "She once made me a crown of sunflower petals. I wore them till they wilted." He crushed the rose in his hand. "But such beauty always wilts one day. I don't understand. To what lies beyond the darkness, as if calling to the utter stillness. A flower blooms. Then it wilts…"

Russia opened his palm, and the crushed petals within his grasp blew away in the wind, gone into the crowd of the unsuspecting, and only the moisture they left behind remained on Russia's gloves. "The vision of my love and dreams is fleeting, is there some small resistance in the petals I grasped?"

France remembered what Russia was like in those days after the massacre of the Romanovs. He had been far more frightening that usual, and at one point, his very aura had made France cry. Not even England had the heart to tease him about it, because he had practically fled from the room. It was clear that Russia had been upset by something during WW1 other than the operation of his troops, enough to frighten even his own allies into silence.

Even the Eiffel Tower dimmed above them, as if sensing the sudden melancholy mood.

"Why do you love, France?" Russia finally asked. "What is the point of it, if it only hurts you in the end? It's fleeting, like warm breathe in winter. How do you see beauty, when all there is—is pain? While yearning for something, to the point of nearly drowning… Why do you love so openly? Why do you believe it is so important? I don't understand."

The two stood together, staring at each other, wide lilac eyes unmoving, searching each other as the crowds of locals and tourists passed them on all sides, steering clear as Russia's dark aura began to grow between them. Yet, in that dangerous tone of his voice, there was desperation. He truly wanted to know.

"Why shouldn't I?" France finally managed to croak out in return.

Russia frowned. "_Chto?_"

France shook his head, those white roses dancing in the gentle breeze, mixing with his locks as bright as the sun. "Love is eternal, Russia. It comes in all forms, and it belongs to everyone. We find it in the most unlikely places, and in the most unlikely people. If we don't feel heartache, how would we know that we've loved at all?

"The pain one feels in losing someone they love only proves that they are alive, and that that love is resilient and genuine. We, as nations, thrive as long as our people prosper, and thus have known and learned to love those young people who pass us in fleeting heartbeats. Though they leave, we don't forget, but that should not mean that we stop loving, even if, in the end, we are hurt once more."

Without thinking about it, France reached forward and plucked a red rose off of Russia's head and held it up for him to see.

"Love starts from something small, from a desire within our soul, and it thrives into something magnificent. It's those small moments that count, that add fuel to a flame. And _oui_, there will be a day that wilts and dies away, and another will take its place, but that does not mean that it will ever be the same." The terrifying aura around Russia began to dim. "If we deny ourselves our own nature, then that would be very lonely way to live. Even as nations, we are also human. We can never forget who we truly are.

"We mourn those we've lost. Why should that mean love only hurts us in the end, when it can heal us, too?"

The Russian stared at that hands of the Frenchman, where his slim fingers still grasped the stem of the rose with a gentle caress before placing it in Russia's gloved hands once more.

"Clearly, you loved Anastasia. She was someone dear to you."

Russia's eyes were hidden in their own dark shadow, and France refrained from pulling an Italy and racing away from the scene. Finally, Russia said, "I promised to protect her. The day they attacked. Yet, I was too late, and she died in my arms. That pain... There's no healing it."

His hands shook around France's, and before either of them knew it, Russia had France's wrist in a death grip. "That anger—that grief, it was like thunder, only purer. That light died in her eyes, and that love died in me. I lost myself. When I finally found sense, I had massacred all within sight. Those who lived were those who fled."

France's hand was numb; he needed the circulation, and quickly! Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes as the rose fell from their grasp, forgotten on the ground.

"_Je suis désolé_," he whispered, "If I offended you in some way, but to break my hand is not the best solution to alleviate your frustrations!"

"Eh?" Russia realized what he was doing and loosened his hold on France's wrist. "Oh."

Attempting to rub the pain out of his wrist, as well as enduring the stringing needles of his blood re-circulating through his arm, France sighed and stared towards the sky.

"Do you believe I know not the agony of losing a beloved, Russia? I have!" he stated passionately. "She was a young girl herself, valiant to fight for her country, and had had incredible success in all she strived for under divine instruction. She even won my heart, and I thought I could not love anyone more than I loved her. But in the end, _Angleterre's_ people stole her from me, tied her to a stake and burned her alive, and worst part was that _Angleterre_ held me down and forced me to watch as she burned, without any chance to rescue her, to weaken my morale in the war, and he reveled the agony that ensued.

"But that pain inspired me to fight than fall, and in the end, I reaped the success Jeanne inspired in me," France continued. "And today I look back on those memories of her, and hope that in another life, she is blessed with better fortune than what she had and I failed to give her. Would you not wish the same for your Anastasia? And would she want you to suffer so in her name?"

France was sure that Death was hanging around somewhere over his head. For someone like Russia, who had seen centuries of cruelty and bloodshed and known nothing but domination for power, could these words mean _anything_ to him? The loss of someone so pure, who gave him hope and happiness he sourly craved, would only send him down further spirals. He knew his heart. Good grief, he had _seen_ his heart before! It was a shriveled lump that fell out of his chest, and for Russia, that was perfectly normal, when to everyone else, it was perfectly horrid, and in some cases, heartbreaking. How did he survive with such a condition?

The sky slowly darkened above their heads, and yet the nations were statues against the moving crowds. The flowing wind eventually began loosening the flowers woven into Russia's hair, and slowly, those closest to his ears and neck were released from their hold to the fair locks and descended to the ground, drooping gloomily in their abandonment.

"I've ruined your day, haven't I, France?"

Taken aback, France swallowed in dread as Russia approached him and cautiously raised his hand to touch France's injured wrist, only to ball it into a fist when France flinched away from him. The dark aura that hovered over Russia's frame subsided and disappeared entirely as Russia retreated from France's frozen figure and turned around.

"It seems that I have taken up enough of your time," he said gently. "I'll let your enjoy what's left of today, _da_?"

It was amazing how a large nation with flowers in his hair could disappear into a crowd of French locals and tourists in only a matter of seconds when he should have stuck out like a sour thumb. And yet, when France finally came to his senses, Russia was long gone, and France was left attracting a fair amount of stares, both from the rose crown on his head and from the dumbfounded expression on his handsome face.

"Monsieur France, are you alright?" Someone tapped on his shoulder, startling the poor nation into jumping a foot into the air. France immediate recognized the dark hair and cat ears, calming down almost immediately.

"Ah! Picardy! _Mon dieu_, you gave me a fright!" France rubbed his chest, soothing his poor agitated heart. Flying above their heads was Pierre, France's pet bird, who chirped and came to rest between two roses on France's crown.

"_Je suis désolé, Monsieur France!_" Picardy exclaimed apologetically. "When you did not appear for _ze_ wine tasting, we all grew worried. We've been searching for hours."

Hours? Wine tasting? "_WINE TASTING?!"_ France's heart thumped frantically as the memory returned to his overly-befuddled mind. He had grown so preoccupied with Russia that he completely forgot that he had several plans in store for the other nations to enjoy for the day.

"_Mon dieu!_ I totally forgot all about that!"

Picardy's expression displayed only alarm. Even his favorite cat ears were straightened in shock. "How could you forget? It was YOUR arrangement, _Monsieur_! As well as the singing contest and banquet dinner!"

Pierre chirped in agreement.

France almost wept into his hands. "_Oui_. I'll be there in a moment."

Picardy looked nervous. "They already started, and Monsieur Luxembourg is having a drinking contest with Monsieur Prussia."

Could this day get any worse? Oh, course it could! It could be _England_ in that drinking contest! The last thing he needed was a drunken England running around all of Paris, singing karaoke! (It didn't matter that he had a divine singing voice). But having a depressed Russia walking through its streets was equally as disturbing. Oh, what did he get himself into?

"Go on ahead, _mon ami_," France said with a wave of his hand. "I have something to take care of first."

Not even waiting for Picardy's response, France hurried off to the last place he'd seen Russia.

Picardy stared after him in disbelief. He call after him in French, "_But I can't take care of them all by myself! Monsieur France!_"

Searching for a nation was not as easy as one would think. Unlike their landmasses, they could not be found on a map. France combed through the streets, various landmarks, and even returned to the hotel where the nations were staying, but he couldn't find Russia anywhere. Russia had not returned to the hotel, according to the concierge and doorman, and had not checked out of his room.

"_Ce est ridicule!_" France finally exclaimed as he stopped next to the park opposite the hotel. "Where could he have disappeared to?"

A fluttering pair of wings ruffled the roses and flew down to eye level with his owner before taking off into the park.

"Pierre?" Frowning, France followed the little white bird towards one of the tallest trees. "What are you—_AAAACCK_!"

France spat out the mouthful of green that filled his mouth after falling face-first to the ground. Above him, Pierre chirped happily, annoying France even further. His rose crown slid off his head and collided on a strewn patch of petal covered lush grass, and as France pushed himself into a sitting position, he realized that it led to a long body perched against the tree truck, eyeing him with amusement.

It was Russia, and apparently France had tripped over his sprawled legs.

"Hello, comrade," was all Russia had to say. His hair was mussed up and free of roses.

France's jaw dropped and he lifted his head to glare at the bird. "You knew he was here all along?"

_Tweet!_

"And you never said anything!"

_Tweet! Tweet!_

"Pierre!" France frowned at his clothes and pinched his dirt stained shirt. "This suit is ruined!"

Russia chuckled and rose to his feet, towering over France as he held out his hand. "Perhaps you should have looked at where you stepped."

"Perhaps you should have had given a warning," France grumbled, accepting Russia's help in standing up. "Where were you? You don't just disappear on me like that! It's bad manners!"

"You sound like England."

France paled and almost fainted. "Don't compare me to that—that despicable _rosbif_!"

Russia's lips trembled and a flash crossed his eyes. A moment of dread flittered through France until Russia began laughing, if you could call it that. It was soft rhythmic noises emanating from his throat, but it was enough to show that he was entertained. Even little Pierre was twittering happily, and the two of them were staring at—France's hair? One touch was all it took for him to realize it was all mussed up and tangled with grass and rose petals.

"_MON DIEU! NO!_"

**~o~**

France grumbled to himself as he struggled to comb out the tangles and knots in his hair. Without thinking, he had rushed back to the hotel and went to the nearest washroom room to fix the monstrosity. Why was this day only going downhill? He missed the wine tasting, and the singing contest must have started already. He checked for the time on his wristwatch. It was only ten minutes to five. He should have known from the coloring of the sky above the park.

When he was finally finished, he exited the men's room to find Russia waiting for him by the doorway, with Pierre circling around the hallway.

"Mr. Picardy was searching for you," Russia informed him. "Something about judging a contest."

France sighed. "How far along is it?"

Russia tilted his head, thinking back to what was said. "They have five finalists: England, Japan, Austria, Iceland and Norway."

"All the difficult ones? Why did the ones with the angelic voices have to make the final cut?" There was no point in going back. It would be too difficult to eliminate any of them, and that included England. He had enough stress on him as it was! He needed to so something to alleviate the tension. Now! "Very well. I think it's time for an early dinner." Hesitantly, he added, "I wouldn't mind if you joined me. Think of it as an apology for earlier."

"But I am the one who tripped you."

"…Earlier than that."

Silence. "_Da_."

At France's request, the cooks left an entire section for him to prepare a meal while they prepared dinner for the other nations. Apparently, France preferred to cook his own meals than have a chef do so for him. ("The flavor's always richer," he added to Russia, who watched him from the table given to them.)

Russia examined every detail of France's cooking, and had to admire his skill. He could admire anything that was handmade. He was quick and efficient, and never so much as dirtied the clothes he had changed into before entering the kitchen. He handled the pots and pans and chopped the vegetables with relative and graceful ease, as though cooking was as second nature as breathing. He hummed to himself all the while, and Russia had to admit that he too had his own angelic voice.

Lost in his own thoughts, Russia was unaware that he was humming in a low voice. Even above the chatter of the kitchen, France could make out the strange sounds of what he was saying.

"_Pe-pe-pe pe-pe-pe-pe-pechka, light my heart. Whoops! My vodka fell from my pocket. Pe-pe-pe-pe-pechka, put some borscht on it. __More vodka, __everyone sings la__-la-la-la-lai la lai_."

France shook his head at the absurdity of the song and continued to cook, artfully decorating the porcelain plates with his creations once he was finished. Together, France and Russia ate in silence, and France felt a slither of pride from the delighted expression on Russia's face. No one could deny that his cooking skills were superb. Not even the Russian.

At last, when they got to the desserts, Russia asked, "Why did you invite me here, comrade? You would have left me alone before."

France shook his head. "I caused you grief. That goes unwarranted on my part. And besides, what sort of host would I be if you left here unhappy? This is my apology."

"Anyone else would have. They don't care."

France shrugged and sipped from his wine glass. "Well, _mon ami_, I understood how you felt. It must not have been easy for you in those days. And I suppose those rose crowns brought up those old memories."

Russia shook his head. "No. They are in my good memories now. You have good children in your country, France. They brought good memories."

Unsure of how to respond, the Frenchman kept his mouth shut, but he appreciated his words nonetheless. Well, that was, until Russia said this:

"You know, for many years, I thought you were only a weakling nation with wayward tendencies and too much cheese, but you're much nicer than I'd have thought."

France deadpanned. "I take my apology back."

Russia chuckled. "And I'm sure you think I'm a cruel and merciless nation who only seeks supremacy, _da_?"

France blanched. "Well, I—I mean that I—"

"I've heard America say so before," Russia admitted, faintly forlorn. "And Prussia. I have heard many nations say so, so it doesn't hurt as much now."

The Frenchman placed his wine glass down on the table. "I—don't know what to say…"

"That's alright. General Winter made me strong, see?" Russia smiled his creepy, childlike smile. "My bosses have always wanted a resilient general to lead their armies, but as a child, I was always picked on by Mongolia and Teutonic Knights, and lost many battles. Even the Nordics picked on me. General Winter was hard on me and even stood by while I was beaten, and I suffered in the cold for many years, but it made me strong, so I can fight now and win. It's all I know, and for a long time, it was all I needed to know."

France shivered at the mention of the name. He'd met General Winter, strict and harsh, carrying a colossal amount of cold wherever he went. During the War, he'd seen the man wrap his hand around Russia's throat and squeezed till he choked, but Russia never complained, and in the end, he fought harder, bloodier, and more terrifying than before.

Make him stronger, he said? More like making him an obedient and coldblooded soldier…

"But you don't need to keep doing that," France argued. "There is no need to take this world by force. While we nations do quarrel, we're getting along better, though we still have our wars to fight."

"That's precisely why," Russia countered easily. "There will always be wars. We should always be ready for them. I need to be strong, see?"

'_That doesn't mean you have to scare everyone_,' France thought to himself.

"Besides, General Winter says personal emotions get in the way of how we operate," Russia added. "That's why, after _Malenkaya's_ death, I had to focus on the war. Nothing else. He wouldn't let me."

"That was wrong," France stated, and upon seeing Russia's startled expression, he continued. "You should have had time to mourn. Our emotions are what push us to fight for our countries and our people. To do so without any care for ourselves will only bring about our downfall. I've seen it happen. Those too focused on gaining power and ignoring the consequences… I've seen the heartache that follows."

'_And I don't think Prussia has ever truly forgiven me for what happened to Holy Rome_…' he added dejectedly. '_So much power that he was killing himself, just like Ancient Rome_…'

"I'm sure even your sisters would mourn if something were to happen to you," France muttered. "You shouldn't only focus on the politics of it all. Haven't you even thought about what you want?"

Russia ogled. "What—I want?"

"_Oui_. Is there anything that you've ever wanted that didn't involve your boss or government?"

The kitchen was silent of their voices, but filled with the aroma of delicious food and orders called in French. The familiar clangs of metal colliding on metal sounded at every stove, and the rhythmic chopping of vegetables and meats met the encore.

"I always wanted to go to a warm place," Russia stated. "With sunflowers. Lots and lots of sunflowers."

France raised an eyebrow. The request was so simple, so innocent, that he would have laughed if he hadn't caught himself. Russia was raised by General Winter to be strong, but did he ever have a chance to just be a child, even as a nation? Austria and Spain let the Italy brother play and have fun while growing up. Even England, abandoned by his brothers, found time to have fun in his own imaginary world, which attributed to his softer personality. Prussia encouraged Germany to have fun, though that didn't turn out quite as planned.

Inside, Russia was still a child who didn't know how to be a child, so instead was left to be a twisted man by default. Now he understood why Russia so fear-provoking. It was distressing. France checked his wristwatch for the time. It was only half passed six?

"Come with me," France said, standing up. He gave and order to the chef before gesturing for Russia to follow him to the lobby. "From here, you close your eyes."

The Russian tilted his head to the side, confused. "Why?"

"Trust me," the Frenchman insisted.

Russia frowned, obviously not sure as to whether he should really trust France, but after seeing the sincerity of his charming expression, he opted to close his eyes. His eyebrows lifted in surprise as France took his hand and led him out of the lobby outside, where the warmth of the sunset fanned across his face. Enjoying its gentle warmth, he followed France for a few blocks before France insisted he wait for him outside of a store, and to keep his eyes shut.

"Here," France said upon his return. "You can open your eyes now."

"Hmm?" Russia opened his eyes as requested, and they lit up at the familiar flowers in France's grip. "Sunflowers!"

It was like giving chocolate to a young child. Russia's entire expression glowed with delight as he accepted the sunflowers from the Frenchman, and he cradled them close to his chest, gently stroking the yellow petals with reverence. France sighed fondly as Russia adored the sunflowers in his arms, and for once, the nation wasn't creepy at all. It was actually pleasant to see.

"_Spasibo_," Russia said, genuinely meaning it.

"_De rien_," France replied.

The two nations returned to the park, Russia still happily holding on to the sunflowers while France studied him with great interest. He was growing fond of this Russia, the one without the dark aura and the '_Kolkolkol'_. They were just two people enjoying the day together, something that France never believed would happen before. If you'd gone up to him yesterday and told him that he would spend the day with Russia and enjoyed it, he would have thought that you'd lost your mind to madness worthy of England and his faeries.

"I always wondered if my heart would regain a slight sense of peace," Russia remarked as they sat down on a bench. France had bought a box of chocolates for himself, having abandoned the last of his dessert, and plopped one of the small sweets into his mouth. He could tell they came from Belgium's place. Sweet and succulent.

"Whatever do you mean?" he inquired curiously.

"I've always been alone," Russia said. "Even in the Soviet Union, the only person who came close to me was Belarus, and that was—" He shivered. "Not very pleasant."

Even France shuddered at the thought. Why was she so desperate to marry her elder brother? He was her _elder brother_, for God's sake! She even petrified _him_ to wits end!

"To be in a warm place with sunflowers makes me happy," Russia continued. His expression fell slightly. "By tomorrow, I'll be going back home." The words were unspoken, but France was sure that he meant to indicate that to go home was to endure the cold once more.

"Do you dislike the cold that much?" France asked gently.

A ghost of a smile plastered across Russia's lips. "Does it matter?"

France sighed. Answering a question with a question… He shook his head and offered a chocolate to Russia who hesitated when he noted his dirty gloves. Resting the sunflowers onto his lap, he removed the glove from his hand and took one of the chocolates from France with a brief thanks, and France's eyes trailed on the icy white skin constantly hidden behind those gloves. Without thinking, he reached out to touch his hand, only to be stunned by how icy they actually were.

How was it possible for his hands to be that cold?

Russia paused at France's touch and eyed him inquisitively, and the other nation blushed at being caught.

"Your hand is freezing," he whispered.

Russia frowned. "I don't know why," he said. "Perhaps it's from being in the cold for so long, da?"

But France knew the feel of Nordics' skin, as well as the sting of the slaps that came from the inopportune times to discover them. They lived in such frigid conditions, but they were warm under their layers of clothes, and didn't dress as heavily as Russia. Even his little Canada could never feel so cold. It wasn't so cold out here at this moment. In fact, France still felt the heat of the day as it fell into night.

"Your hands are warm," Russia added, taking hold of France's hand and lifting it to the side of his face, sighing contentedly at the soft warmth covering his cheek.

France's mouth fell open by a fraction, but eventually he began to smile. Russia had a smooth face, free of roughness and stubble, and France let his fingers trace across his cheekbones. Unlike his behavior towards the other nations, France had always refrained from touching Russia out of fear, but now he had his permission. The Russian leaned into his gentle touch, and minutes passed without them changing positions. France placed his box of chocolates aside and reached out his other hand to caress the other side of Russia's face, and Russia's gloved hand came up to meet his and hold it in place. Through the fabric, the Frenchman could feel the chill of his skin, somehow untouched by warmth.

It was only then France realized how genuine Russia's childlike face was, smooth, soft, pale, and round as a cherub. He ran a finger over his pale brow and down his nose, his eyes making contact with Russia's wide violet eyes, gleaming under the warm sunset above them. France's finger's trailed along Russia's jaw as the other nation held on to his wrist, still faintly sore from earlier, but this time without any desperation. Russia's skin was still so cold, but that coldness was mildly pleasant under France's touch.

As if enchanted by a foreign spell, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against the Russian's, and the clammy coolness was soothing against his own, though to Russia, France felt as though he had a fever. Russia's cold breath dusted across France's lips, and in return, France's warm breath came to greet it, just before he chastely pressed his lips against Russia's.

Something inside France thudded around in his chest and all thought began to muddle in his brain. All he could think of was how smooth and cool Russia's lips were, and how they parted in surprise but never pulled away. How clumsy were they against his own, so innocent but… hopeful. It warmed France's heart. The taste of his chilly breath filled his mouth as they came close together, engrossed in something so new between them. The two were so lost in that one kiss that they had no idea what was going on around them.

"…like I said!" America was saying as he and England exited the hotel. "Japan was pleased with the second place. Though it was a shame that Norway and Iceland dropped out because of Denmark."

"Well, it was his own fault for getting so drunk," England said, shaking his head. "Only Norway could calm him down. And Iceland wouldn't compete unless it was against his brother. However, I don't believe it was an accident that Prussia knocked Austria out."

"Come one, it's not like the guy could have—_HOLY MOTHER OF GOD_!"

America almost fell over on England as stumbled down the front steps, his eyes plastered to a certain bench across the street. His eyes grew as wide as watermelons behind Texas as he took in the sight of the kissing nations, and his ability to breathe became compromised.

"What on earth is it _now_?" England asked, staring at him with irritation. America grasped England's chin, and for a wild thought, England thought he was about to try and kiss him again. Ready to pull away, he was surprised by America directing his gaze to that very bench, and he began to see black spots as his brains tried to process the situation.

"What?" he croaked out in horror; the pitch of his voice was higher than usual. "Wait! _WHAT?!_"

"What's up with the two of you? Planning to get busy behind a bush? _Kesesesesese!_"

England turned red and blurted, "Shut up, you bloody wanker!" as America pointed to the bench and said, "No, them!"

That turned out to be a big mistake.

The second Prussia's eyes fell on France and Russia, he looked as though the Devil had just appeared to take him away to Hell.

"_Scheiße! Scheiße-scheiße-scheiße_!" His arms waved out wildly. "My awesome eyes! I can't see! I can't see!" He almost fell down the steps, but was rescued by Spain, who was equally as dumbfounded and unable to say anything. "Old Fritz? Am I dead?! _Please tell me I'm dead!_"

"You're not, so stop acting like an idiot!" England snapped. "I can't believe the Frog's kissing that damned Russia!"

"Wait, who's kissing who?" Hungary's voice shrilled before catching sight of the two nations and turned bright red with excitement. "_Te jó Isten!_" She turned and raced into the hotel lobby yelling, "Japan! Where's your camera?! France is kissing Russia!"

And like dominos, the news toppled upon each and every nation in sight. While it was not uncommon to hear about France kissing or groping someone, they had never heard of him kissing _Russia_ before. However, the news fell as the most inopportune time—when Belarus and Ukraine exited the elevator.

"…not in his room," Belarus said grumpily. "Big brother, where are—"

"Did you hear, old chap?" Wales asked China, who had just returned from the restroom. "Miss Hungary said Russia and France were kissing outside!"

Meanwhile, on that not so innocent and now infamous bench, France broke away from Russia to catch his breath. In return, he was rewarded with a blushing and smiling Russia. Well, there was no going back at this point, and France wasn't sure if he really wanted to.

"Don't you remember that your people have a law against _this_?" France whispered against Russia's lips.

"Then I'm happier not to remember, _da._"

The two could only stare before France smirked and leaned back in for another kiss, only for a loud screech to jolt them apart.

"_WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING TO MY BIG BROTHER?!_" Belarus screeched like a harpy as she threw England into America's arms, sending the two tumbling down the stairs. Her eyes saw red as how close France was to her elder brother, and if Russia had a frightening dark aura, it was nothing compared to hers.

The spell was over.

So why did France cling onto Russia while his heart doubled over with panic at the thought of being torn from him. He went as white as a sheet as he saw her approaching figure, but Russia grabbed his hand and yanked him off the bench.

"Belarus, please calm down!" he pleaded, but the infuriated nation marched towards them, leaving a wake of fear with the promise of murder in her eyes. Russia gulped and tugged France into the park without a moment's notice as Belarus charged after the both of them.

"You know, I don't think we can outrun her like this!" France panted, trembling at the sound of her distant snarls.

"Then I'll protect you," Russia said firmly, though his eyes shone with their own sense of fear. "I won't fail this time!" France's blush deepened.

Together they wove through the entire city of Paris to escape the wrath of the enraged nation, who was probably still hyper from chocolate, and neither France not Russia realized that it wasn't adrenaline behind the warmth growing under Russia's skin.

* * *

**Happy Valentine's Day!**

**Well, my Valentine's my computer, which wasn't giving me a lot of trouble today. Love ya! But really, I don't celebrate Valentine's Day either. So far, all my family has done was buy some chocolate and ice cream and call it a day. That's how we celebrate it. And get lots of sleep because shopping in a mall is tiring work.**

**So basically, Valentine's Day is pointless for me, but it is fun to enjoy, I guess.**

**Somehow I managed to finish this today. I actually forgot about it for a while. It's difficult to make these two work, from a realistic point of view, isn't it? I couldn't do lovey-dovey. That's too weird, so it's easier to go to an angsty level. I fair better with heartbreaking stuff. Easier to write for me. However, I guess I got light-hearted towards the end.**

**It's late where I am, so I'll look over this for mistakes tomorrow. I know it's completed OOC and choppy in places, so I'll fix it tomorrow once I've had some sleep.**

**~o~**

**TRANSLATIONS (brackets are the characters or the language spoken):**

**Mon dieu – My god (France)**

**Gott im Himmel – God in Heaven (Prussia)**

**Crime passionnel – Crime of passion (French)**

**Allons-y – Let's go (France)**

**Malen****ʹ****kyy Brat – Little Brother (Ukraine)**

**Spasibo – Thank you (Russia)**

**Ici, à Paris – Here, in Paris**

**Telle beauté magnifique – Such magnificent beauty**

**Sladkiy Malen'kaya – Sweet _Malenkaya_ (Russia)**

**Chto? – What? (Russia)**

**Je suis désolé. – I am sorry (France)**

**Ce est ridicule! – This is ridiculous! (France)**

**De rien. – You're Welcome (France)**

**Scheiße – Shit (Prussia)**

**Te jó Isten – Oh my god (Hungary)**

**~o~**

**OTHER NOTES:**

**Angleterre – France refers England as such in French**

**Malenkaya – An actual nickname for the Grand Duchess Anastasia, meaning "little one"**

**Rosbif – Roast beef; apparently this is a nickname the French have for the English, kind of like how the English call the French 'frogs'.**

**Picardy – well, you should remember him from that April fool's sketch, where he took "compromising" photos of everyone, and it was terrible. If you haven't, go watch it. It's from the Beautiful World series.**

**"I don't understand. To what lies beyond the darkness, as if calling to the utter stillness. A flower blooms." – This is from Russia's character song called "_Winter"_.**

**My Heart Has A Light – Russia sings this while France is cooking in the kitchen.**

**Grand Duchess Anastasia – the youngest daughter of the Romanov family who was executed in 1918 with the rest of her family.**

**Jeanne d'Arc – a young woman considered a heroine of France and a Roman Catholic saint, who said she received visions of the Archangel Michael, Saint Margaret and Saint Catherine instructing her to support Charles VII and recover France from English domination late in the Hundred Years' War.**

**The Hundred Years' War - a series of conflicts waged from 1337 to 1453 between the House of Plantagenet, rulers of the Kingdom of England, against the House of Valois, rulers of the Kingdom of France, for control of the latter kingdom.**

**~o~**

**_QUOTES FROM WHITE FLAME_**** (translation from Tagami2nightmare) All you have to do is type "Hetalia - Russia - White Flame" in on YouTube and you'll see it, clear as day, thought I'll give a link. Go check it out, because the song is amazing. So, some of them are a bit re-worded for the story's sake:**

**_~"The vision of my love and dreams is fleeting, and while hearing my familiar lamentation, is there some small resistance in the petals I grasped?_**

**_~"While yearning for something, to the point of nearly drowning, my awakening-self disconnects from tranquility."_**

**_~"It was like thunder resembling anger, only purer."_**

**_~"I wonder if my heart would regain a slight sense of peace."_**

**Link: [basic YouTube url and] /watch?v=_yjIJeU6xO4**

**~o~**

**So, Happy Valentine's Day to everyone. Until next time.**

**~ArtemisIsis13**


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